Half hobbling, Benedikt grabbed ahold of the second fence, shoving his left foot through one of the notches. This one was chain-linked rather than a smooth wall, but as soon as he had hauled himself halfway up, he heard voices coming near. Cursing furiously under his breath, Benedikt stuck his right foot into the fence, biting right past his screaming ankle, and scrambled over the sharp wire at the top. It was possible that he had torn a rip through the cuff of his trousers. It was possible he had scratched his arm and was leaving a trail of blood through the grass. None of it mattered enough to slow him down, afraid that he would be spotted at any moment now that he was in, hurrying along the edges of the garden.
The house loomed into view: one prominent front door, then two wings to either side of it, the second-floor balconies hanging atop its first-floor garages. Gauging by the number of shiny black cars parked outside the house, there were plenty of visitors inside.
Benedikt paused, trying to figure out his best course of action. If he listened hard, he thought he heard the steady hum of conversation from inside, which meant they were possibly hosting an early-morning function. He could hardly comprehend how. The Nationalists had just set the command for slaughter on the city. How did any of these men find the stomach to congregate together and continue with their day when their soldiers were laying waste to the people outside?
“Marshall, where the hell are you?” Benedikt whispered to the empty gardens. Carefully, hunching close to the ground, he started to make his way around the gravel paths, sticking close to the cover of the trees. Too close to the house and he feared being spotted through the large windows; too close to the fence and he feared being sighted by the patrolling soldiers. It wasn’t until he came around the back of the house that he dared straighten a little, hobbling close to the painted white walls. Somehow, he needed to find a way in. Perhaps if he stripped out of the overalls, he could pretend to be a Nationalist’s assistant and claim that—
Benedikt halted. He had passed a window, only now he doubled back, peering in more closely. There was a flag hanging over the desk inside: deep blue with a white sun. This was an office. This was General Shu’s office.
The two windowpanes were latched, but that was no problem. Benedikt retrieved his pocketknife and triggered the thin blade, sliding it right between the two panes. All he had to do was push up, and then the latch was nudged out of the way, the window hinges creaking softly when Benedikt nudged at the glass.
He almost couldn’t believe it. With care not to bring the dirt of the gardens in with him, he climbed through, wincing when he landed on the carpet. The office stayed silent—no alarm going off, no secret guard waiting in the corner. Only the flag fluttering with the slightest disturbance, dust settling over the papers on the desk and the early sunlight casting a slash across the wall. One door opposite the desk likely led out into the hallway. Another door near the flag was smaller—a storage unit.
Benedikt’s gaze caught on the desk. He hardly had the time to dawdle, yet he paused all the same, trying not to put more pressure on his ankle as he walked over and picked up the two pieces of paper left at the center.
The first was messily scribbled, its characters almost bleeding off the page in a hurry.
Intercepted this.
We’ve sent word ahead to Lord Cai.
Benedikt blinked, a bad feeling sinking into his stomach. The second piece of paper was far thinner, ink visible through the sunlight even before he unfolded it. This message was written in a much more careful hand, addressed to . . .
“Oh, no,” he muttered.
Da Nao—
Cai Junli and Roma Montagov seek safe passage with you to leave the city. You must take them onboard. Both of them. For the good of the country, for the good of the people. Please do this favor.
—Lang Selin
The Nationalists knew. The Scarlets knew. They would be assembling their forces right this moment, intent on stopping Juliette from leaving. And if they caught them, then Roma would be hauled away for execution.
Benedikt set the papers down. He had to find Marshall. They had to get out, get to the Bund, deliver the warning.
But then came the sound of footsteps down the hall. Then came the boom of voices, coming closer and closer.
They were heading for the office.
Panic set his pulse into breakneck speed. Benedikt eyed the window, calculating the time he needed to climb back out. With no time to spare, he pivoted instead for the other door in the office and opened it to find a storage room for filing cabinets—barely wide enough to let one person walk through, but long enough to leave darkness on the other end. He squeezed right in, his back pressed against the cabinets lining the walls, shoulders almost colliding with the sharp metal edges.